Prelude
by jontinf
Summary: Ray now came home to someone, to a friend. Takes place in between “Out on a Limb” and “Lost in America.”
1. Part One

Title: Prelude

Rating: T

Spoilers: Takes place in between "Out on a Limb" and "Lost in America."

Summary: Ray now came home to someone, to a friend.

**Part I**

_March 2006_

Ray hadn't had much to eat—Oreos, lots of bad coffee, one of Neela's toxic cookies out of pity. It was dizzying finally ending his day and stepping into that apartment, like he'd spent the entire shift twirling around non-stop in a swivel chair. The lights were left off, all the windows opened with their curtains gently hugging the breeze like sails. He could hear traffic noises and smell the night air.

He could also hear the shower running from the bathroom directly across from him, an orange glow of light emitting from underneath the bathroom door. She was home, as he expected her to be. Most days of the week, their shifts were ending around the same time. They started and ended days together. She was supposed to be done with her shift several hours before him today; although he had heard she'd stayed a couple of hours late to tie up loose ends.

Dropping his bag in front of the door, he switched on the lights for the living room, slipped out of his coat and put it absentmindedly onto the loveseat. There was a newly opened bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the coffee table, next to the empty pizza box from a couple of nights ago. She had already succeeded in cleaning him out of his tequila. It was official. He was living with a bona fide wino.

As he leaned over to pick up the box, the bathroom door opened and she stepped onto the carpet, toes curling into its old tufts.

They looked at each other blankly. She greeted him, her voice sounding thick.

"Hey."

The sash of her blue bathrobe was wrapped tightly around her body. Hair clinging and coiling against her scalp and her face. Her lips looked small, like flower petals, her entire face emanating that same softness.

He smiled at her. "Hi."

Not long after they first moved in together, he had walked into her bedroom to see her standing there totally naked, hair damp from a shower as she was digging through her top drawer for clothes. Neela looked up at him, understandably mortified. Mirroring her expression, he apologized like a child after breaking something expensive, swiftly turned around and nearly walked into the door on his way out. They wouldn't be able to make eye contact for the entire day.

Even though she never actually reproached him for it, he felt the need to rationalize his momentary lapse of "cohabitation etiquette." He could come up with the usual reasons_. He was in a hurry. He was tired. He wasn't thinking. He hadn't lived with a girl before. It was a door knob; he was used to turning those kinds of things._ Although, yes, he had some common sense, for the most part, so he knew better. Ray realized he hadn't expected her to be naked. Ever. It was just the way she was, as if she were incapable of it. No wonder she looked at him like he was a child. Of course, Abby thought it was hilarious, adding that it was an opportunity, an ice breaker, if you will. After all, football players saw each other naked all the time. Maybe it helped boost team spirit.

"We're not getting any hot water in the shower." Neela began to walk over to her bedroom, as he headed toward the kitchen with the pizza box.

He dropped it near the door. "Lovely."

She yelled from her room. "I found your phone. Also, that girl called."

"What girl?"

After having a _just delightful_ conversation with the girl on the El (Neela had made the mistake of answering Ray's cell instead of letting it go to voicemail), she couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't come out derisive.

"Her message's on the fridge."

Instead of looking at what was on the fridge door, seemingly cluttered with every flier, note and other spare pieces of paper they'd ever encountered, he opened it and frowned at the contents inside.

"We don't have any eggs left." Or anything else, for that matter.

She came out of her room, head tilted, and toweling her hair with both hands.

"I know. I tried making an omelet. I just couldn't get it right, so I took a shower instead."

He looked the kitchen over. It looked like someone had tried to make breakfast in the middle of a robbery. Neela wasn't exactly Julia Child, but she knew how to make an omelet. Ray wondered whether the Jack Daniels came before or after cooking.

He turned around to look at her. "Bad day, again?"

"Yeah." She didn't look at him, instead tossing the towel over her shoulder and turning on the television to CNN. She looked for the remote.

"Well, _bollocks_."

This made her head turn, the faintest grin growing at the ends of her lips.

"Are you making fun of me or have you just been spending too much time around me?"

"Can it be both?"

He put both of his hands against the countertop, pressing his weight against the counter, and shooting a smug smile at her.

Suddenly, the phone rang. It was the land line. Nobody ever called the land line except for telemarketers and other people they didn't know; didn't want to know. It was an unsettling, alarm-like noise and made Neela nervous, even though she knew there was no reason to be. They both became quiet.

It reminded him of how extremely quiet he would get when his mother and father fought, like a recurring nightmare that he could never quite make sense of, no matter how many times he had it. He felt as though every bad human emotion were settling within the walls of the house. Ray would act as if his world weren't detonating pitilessly around him: he sat at the kitchen table, his spoon fiddling with soggy cheerios, or repeatedly changed the stations on the television without even being aware of what was on or just stared hard at the homework that was in front of him. His parents' fights always scared him into doing his homework, as would other things. He thought it maybe had to do with a kid's understanding of karma. Bad things happened to him because he wasn't trying hard enough, like he didn't deserve to be happy.

In the middle of the third ring, Ray picked up the phone. He was closer to it.

"Hello."

"Hello," a woman's voice replied. "Can Neela talk? This is Michael's mother."

He stared down at his left hand on the countertop and wondered if it was weird to call your daughter-in-law only to have her roommate pick up. He wondered what they thought about him.

"Sure," he said evenly. "Hold on a sec."

Neela moved toward him, letting the remote slip from her hand. "Who is it?"

"Mrs. Gallant."

That sounded strange. "Mrs. Gallant" was technically standing four feet away from him.

Her body relaxed a little as she took the phone. Neela was the last person to ever deserve the bad things that happened to other people. Sometimes he wondered if she felt the same way he did as a kid about the things that happened in her own life. She had that mutely self-impugning streak. Ray did know some things about suffering quietly.

His mother had boyfriends. Some of them were okay. Some of them would make Clemente look temperate. Some of them came back. A lot of them came back with their Jekyll and Hyde acts. The first time he hit a man, it was out of some long-dormant and furious impulse boiling in his gut. He couldn't take it anymore. It was so the man would never hit his mother ever again. It was so that he would never have to watch another man do that to her. His mother didn't fucking deserve it. After that, the man never stepped foot in their home again, but he left with such a god-awful, malevolent smirk, like he actually planned on coming back for them.

He didn't think about those days as much now. His mother was relatively happy and settled in Baton Rouge. He hadn't seen his father in years, wherever he was now. Everybody learned to keep their distance.

Ray now came home to someone, to a friend.

When he saw her drift back into her bedroom with the phone against her ear, he looked at the kitchen again, figuring he might try cleaning up.

Oh, holy shit. That was quite the omelet she wanted to make. The multitude of knives and forks made some sense, but what exactly was she doing using so many spoons? Ray picked up an unclean bowl, looked at the sink, took another thorough gander at the entire space, thought _fuck it_, and did what he usually did in these situations. Lightly tossing the bowl on the counter, he grabbed a beer out of the fridge, and plopped himself in front of the TV.

When he'd watch the news with Neela or catch parts while doing something else, that "fuck the world" anger from when he was younger would plummet back into his chest. He wasn't sure if the anger was just fatigue at this point. Neela watched the news regularly, also absorbing every bit of print she could get her hands on. He sensed she didn't want to anymore. There was a point where you didn't want to hear how many more had died today. He knew that she considered it her duty. The least that she could do was to _know_. Even then, she and her husband rarely discussed the things said on the news. They focused on other things, as if they were sitting at home together. They talked about the future, the past, anything but the present.

Neela reappeared with the phone in her hand, having changed into a sweatshirt and pajamas. She looked worn down.

"Michael's parents are thinking of visiting in a couple of weeks or so." She sat down on the couch next to him, pressing folded legs against her chest. "They haven't set a date yet, but I'll let you know." The way she was talking about it, you'd think they were both their in-laws.

They kept their eyes on the TV and then the question just tumbled out.

"Have you talked to your parents lately?"

Immediately, he felt mean, almost spiteful for asking her that. This wasn't a question he needed to ask, because he could probably figure out the answer.

"I've spoken to Naina." Naina was her youngest sister— baby Neela, a sophomore at Columbia. Naina was also the conduit being used for communication between Neela and her parents. "You might be happy to know that she wouldn't stop asking about you."

Ray laughed. "Did I ever tell you that your sister has very astute taste in men?"

Naina had briefly visited her sister about a year ago. The three of them went out to dinner and she left with a not-so-secret crush on Ray. She insisted to her sister that he was "bloody gorgeous, you daft fool."

"She also spoke about marching in some anti-war demonstration down Broadway in late April. She's saying that it could be pretty big, maybe 300,000 people."

"You ever think about doing something like that?"

"Sometimes."

She glanced up at the ceiling and back at the TV. A thousand emotions swept across her face. She let out a muffled groan and buried her face within the space between her chest and legs. And, there it was—the creeping existential despair, her own issues of the day, the week, probably the last few months that'd been boiling in her gut.

"What?"

Neela lifted her head frustrated. "Nothing makes sense."

He twitched. "Why does everything have to make sense to you?"

"Things just need to make sense. People get to live when things make sense."

It was a case she'd been working on. He suddenly knew it, he knew some things about it, but this was the most he'd be able to get out of her at this point. All of a sudden, he stood up, almost jumped, and patted her knee gently.

"Get dressed."

Still sitting, she peered at him as if he'd just suggested the opposite. "Why?"

He turned off the television. "Because CNN is bad for you."

Neela unraveled herself from her position to turn around and moved onto her knees, hands clutching the back of the couch. "What are you talking about?"

His long, thin legs stepped around the apartment in a nonsensical pattern. As if they were being taught how to waltz. He seemed to be looking for something. "You said you found my phone?"

"Ray."

"We're getting ice cream."

"We have ice cream at home."

"Neela." He looked down at her, like he were talking to a little girl, as if he were about to take her chin with his thumb and forefinger. "We're getting ice cream. And, I want my phone."

"It's nearly ten o'clock."

"Stop talking." Ray walked away from her and moved lithely into his own room.

"You trying to cheer me up?"

"I'm trying to cheer _me_ up. You may tag along."


	2. Part Two

**Part II**

They both stared impassively at the sign hanging in the window that was turned over to say "closed." So much for ice cream.

"Don't worry. We'll find something. It's Chicago."

They walked away from the store. Ray began to list all the other places they could go to, he tried to remember where they were. There were still many options, of course there were. There had to be. There was a great gelato place down somewhere… east or west… on Milwaukee, maybe. He felt like a fucking moron. And, she was getting impatient.

"You want to go to a bar?"

She glared at him.

"I thought so." He decided to speak again, probably against his better judgment. "We could go to a convenience store. You can say 'hi' to some colleagues."

"Get over yourself."

"When was _that_ last used? The 90s?" He sighed. "We need to get out of _buildings_, you know, closed spaces. Walk around a little. The cabin fever can drive you crazy."

They sauntered slowly for awhile, casually glancing at the stores, apartments and the mostly empty street. They were dressed relatively well. He was wearing his nice dark blue jacket. She _wasn't_ wearing sweats and her "I don't care clothes," as she called them. Neela was actually dressed as she usually did at work. He wondered where she got the stamina to be so well-dressed all the time. But, it was part of the plan, a tradition, actually. Whenever his mother or he had a bad day, they would dress up and get ice cream. That's what happened when you're raised by your mother. And, apparently, he hadn't thought completely through this revisiting of tradition. But, he sure as hell wasn't going to call his mom.

Neela buried her hands in the pockets of her coat. "I'm sorry about the kitchen, Ray. I'll clean it all up."

His face softened at that. "It's okay. I'm usually the messy one, right?"

"Try always."

"Hey, at least my dishes manage to make it to the sink."

Neela nodded slowly, her mouth opening slowly to smile warily and agree.

"It _was_ rather—"

"—Like we were visited by a poltergeist?"

She decided to ignore that. He could do better, but it did remind her of something.

"'Poltergeist' came in the mail today, by the way."

"We should watch that."

"Together?"

"What— we share a Netflix account."

"_That_ was most certainly against my better judgment."

"What?"

"You have the _most_ one-dimensional taste in films."

"_What?"_

"Every horror film. The same plot. All about dead people and demons and horny teenagers."

"Oh, well, you know, yuppies falling in love to-to soft pop aren't exactly the most cerebral cinematic fare. What _was_ the last thing you chose? 'Sleepless in Seattle?'"

Neela rolled her eyes, indignant. "What's wrong with 'Sleepless in Seattle?'?"

"Meg Ryan's sitting in a closet listening to a radio show in the middle of the night, because she's in love with a guy she's never actually met. Isn't there a point where she hires a private eye—?"

"'Sleepless in Seattle' is a classic."

"So's 'The Exorcist.'"

She pointed at him warningly. "I love 'Sleepless in Seattle,' because somebody in the film is sleepless, and I can relate to that."

"And, because it's a love story, even though the two leads don't even say a word to each other until the very end, until they're at the top of the Empire State Building. And, she has his son's bag in her hands and he's just looking at her, and it's destiny."

Her eyes gazed into nothingness, looking dreamy and self-aware at the same time. Something happened to her face when she smiled. She had one of those faces that he couldn't quite help stare at. He felt the need to keep notes, like it could be important to him. There was such a loveliness and radiance to it, and he felt strangely comforted.

She noticed him watching her as if making some kind of radically new judgment about her.

"I sound ridiculous."

"No." He really didn't think so.

He paused, looking down at his shoes a little dumbstruck, finally smiling and saying, "Yes. A little bit."

She shook her head, benignly retreating.

"Look, I don't think horror films are that ridiculous. I actually watched quite a bit with my brothers and sisters when I was young. Although, I barely remember any of it. Maybe I should start watching a few."

"Well," he replied, suddenly enthused, "there's a zombie film marathon going on tomorrow near Hyde Park. 'Night of the Living Dead,' 'Plan 9 from Outer Space,' 'Dawn of the Dead…'"

"You keep tabs on these things, don't you? Like an old spinster. And you wonder why you're getting stood up. Two of the movies you just named have the word 'dead' in them."

"You're not scared, are you?"

"This has nothing to do with fear. 'Dawn of the Dead— '"

"—I have the extended version at home."

"There's an extended version? What could you possibly extend?"

"I think this might be good for you. You said you needed to do new things, get a life."

"Zombies are the prescription for getting a life?"

"Why the hell not?"

"Fine."

"You won't regret it. I promise."

There was something about the way he said the last two words, like he wasn't used to talking like that. They stopped in front of a place, as the door jingled open to let a couple of customers out.

Ray looked up at the sign approvingly. "Bingo."

Neela glanced up at the same sign.

"What is it?"

"This place is open until 5 am."

"It's a bar."

"I've been here."

"Who was the girl?"

He squinted at her, giving her the "Oh, grow up" face. She felt the urge to shove him a little.

"It's good," he said. "Best ice cream sodas in Chicago."

She followed him inside as she let the thought float around in her mind of his downing ice cream sodas into the early hours of the morning. It was official. She was living with a bona fide nut.

***

In the beginning, when Neela opened her bedroom door to find Ray in the living room—tuning his guitar, nursing a hangover, breathing— she would give him this look of unmitigated impatience. He'd respond with a faintly exasperated look of "_what did I do now?"_ He actually did know, most of the time. He didn't blame her completely. Living with him could be a pain in the ass. There was no regimen or logic to his life. He thought himself a little like Clark Kent with the whole double life. She'd been the only one who'd truly been able to encounter the duality of his existence, seeing him in both cloaks, and it all crashed into the space that they shared. That apartment did look like there was a lot of colliding going on, so to speak. He kind of liked it that way.

It surprised the hell out of him when he found himself changing to accommodate her, to make her more comfortable. He hadn't planned on doing that. He hadn't planned on liking her so much. He didn't expect her to make it this long with him. He had expected her to bolt the second she found another apartment, a more appropriate roommate, or if Abby were willing to take her back again.

They sat together at the bar like two children. She laughed when they were served, glancing from side to side as the other customers enjoyed their _alcoholic_ drinks, like any normal bloke in a bar. He probably thought she was drinking too much. As if he was one to judge. But, she couldn't complain, because their drinks were damn good, and the thought did run across her mind that they might be spiked in some way.

They began to chat again, about the loud séances Mrs. Churchill had next door, about dumb television and work, and then finally, Rita.

Her name was Rita. She was nine years old, and the daughter of one of the men her husband had served with—was serving with. She had briefly met the girl when she accompanied Michael to a counseling session, before he left for Iraq again. They had taken a liking to each other. She saw her again when she'd met her mother at their home to discuss going to the support group for army spouses. When her mother stepped out to quickly run errands, Neela helped Rita with her math homework. Actually, they raced each other, to see who'd finish a problem first. Neela would sit and stare at the family pictures, empathetic, awestruck, and even envious.

And then she saw her again, strapped to a gurney, so heartbreakingly small, bloodied and broken. It was a three day ordeal. On the second day, Neela was sure she'd make it, and then on the third, out of her mouth came a time of death, so frustratingly early in the morning.

"She died, didn't she?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Some 40 minutes into surgery." She sighed. "It shouldn't have happened. I kept thinking about how she should've been able to do all those… things she planned on doing."

"What plans?"

"Graduating the 4th grade, some ritual of watching the sunrise, teasing boys. She kept bringing up how she had a boyfriend." She lifted her fingers off of the slab to make air quotes. "But it turned out she had more than one. And, then this other kid that she couldn't stop talking about, maligning, really. I think she liked him the most."

"I'm sorry, Neela."

"Well, that is the great deranged part of medicine; you get to watch everything go wrong even when everything is being done right. I don't know."

He studied her to see if there was anything specific she needed to hear. They weren't strangers to patients dying, but _friends_, even acquaintances, especially when you have what's needed to— but, it was more complicated than that. It was about more than that. It always was. The truth was that it was hard for him to know how to console her when he didn't even know how to console himself on things like that. What was there really to say? –"You can't let things like this get you down?" He knew he wouldn't respond much if he had that thrown at him. If she needed to be sad, she should be allowed to feel sad. But, he knew being able to talk about it helped.

They talked more often recently, comparing days, lives even… Her parents hadn't let her attend school dances. He once couldn't go to a dance because his father decided to get arrested that night… They had some things in common. They both were raised in working class homes, both their mothers were dancers, had been dancers. Neela's mother studied classical Indian dance before she married her father. His mother did the same—well, ballet. He had heard stories about her, how much promise she had, and then his grandfather became ill, and something with medical bills, and…

He put his hand over hers and squeezed it reassuringly. She looked up at him, resignedly smiling.

Ray hadn't had a horrible day, just exhausting. He wasn't quite sure how he was still cognizant, or how exactly he was sitting in a bar doing this with his roommate. They sat in silence, until he asked her about her drink.

"It's very good."

"Yeah? I told you."

Ray liked to be right. But, his way of gloating had an endearing quality to it nowadays, like he wasn't used to being right.

"How do you know these things?"

"I know everything."

"Well, of course." She smirked. Maybe some things don't change wholly.

He tapped his fingers repetitively on the bar. "Did you know that Morris has four nipples?"

"You know," she took a sip of the ice cream soda, "I actually did."

He nodded contentedly, and then stopped. "Wait, how?"

"Chuny."

"Huh." He wondered what dirt Chuny had on him or even Neela.

Ray gently touched Neela's glass. "Can I ask you a question about Naina?"

"Does she freak you out? Because, sometimes, she freaks me out. We have nearly a decade between us and—"

"No. Uh, no. She called me 'Ranjha' that last time she visited. I was wondering what that meant."

"Oh. Christ. Um, Naina is—really into Bollywood."

"Yeah?"

"But, this has nothing to do with Bollywood. You don't remind her of Bollywood."

Ray wondered what it would be like watching Bollywood with Neela. "Well, then what do I remind her of?"

"Heer and Ranjha. It's a Punjabi folktale, kind of the equivalent of 'Romeo and Juliet,' I guess. Star-crossed lovers and all that."

"Oh."

"It's a term of endearment. Actually, she had this thing when she was growing up to give nicknames to all the boys she liked. So, she could talk about them in the open, except the nickname would be derived from the first letter of their name—"

She stopped herself. _This_ was a ridiculous conversation, _giving nicknames to fully grown men_, why did she even still do that? And, she felt like she was breaking some sisterly code divulging all her stupid whims. Though she suspected Naina had made sure to divulge bits of embarrassing details about Neela to Ray on that visit. Finding him looking over the baby pictures of chubby arms and bright pink floaties was truly mortifying.

"So, aside from my sister, any other girls you'd care to discuss?"

"When have you _ever_ cared to discuss that?"

"No, I just—thanks to you, I've been able to be acquainted with, perhaps, half of the female population in the metropolitan area of Chicago. I think that's exciting. What about that girl that called today? Rain. By the way, I can't believe you're dating a girl named 'Rain.'"

She felt she may have passed too harsh of a judgment on the girl. It wasn't exactly the greatest feeling in the world to have the phone of the guy you're seeing being picked up by another woman. And then she heard it in her head: "Ray and Rain." Ew.

"Hey, rain cures drought."

This made her feel slightly nauseated— in a completely unexplainable, irritated, emotional way. She imagined him using that line on the girl, to pick her up or after they fucked. Why did he think he deserved girls like that?

"Where did you meet her?"

"Right in this spot. I was sitting where I'm sitting now; she was sitting in your place. She has names for me too."

They watched each other, as if there were a chess board in between them and his pawn had just captured her knight. She shot him a cautionary look and snuck her hand in the pocket of her coat.

"That's it. I'm paying."

_Checkmate._

"Don't even."

"_I'm paying_."

"We're not going to fight over this."

"Stop being such a girl."


	3. Part Three

**Part III**

Neela opened the door for him and watched him step out. They both left generous tips, but they also left realizing they should've gotten something to actually eat. Unknowing of what to do next, they began to walk in a direction, probably toward home, where he'd fix something up for the both of them—if possible. They were in the middle of a conversation.

"I know how to cook," she said, "I know how to cook college food. I make fantastic Ramen."

"Nobody can mess up Ramen."

"Not true." She cocked a brow and grinned knowingly, sticking her forefinger up in the air, looking like she were on the verge of reciting a poem or reading from the encyclopedia. "There is a delicate balance between how much water must be added, when you add the noodles and how long you let it boil."

"Do you use a graduated cylinder to do the measuring?"

"You know, knowing the volume of things is one of life's greatest simple pleasures."

She was so strange, a study in some kind of savantism. She possessed the ability to be so meticulous, so obsessive, so efficient, yet nurtured this knack for being so oblivious. Ray wondered if switching from the metric system to the system in the States was an extremely traumatic experience for Neela. It probably wasn't. There was a good chance she had herself simultaneously learn both just for the fun of it.

"Well–" Then he heard it, just around the corner it seemed. He knew that sound. That man could make that guitar talk, hell, _sing_. It made him want to close his eyes, so he could hear it like it should be heard, empty of head and full of heart. It was the blues, and when he heard the voice, he without a doubt knew who was playing.

"Ray?"

He carefully moved in the direction of the guitar, that sad, smooth voice. His fingers grazed the tips of her fingers, delicately pulling her with him.

"…_Yes, when I first met you, baby. You said you always would be mine. Well, you did my heart in two, baby. And keep me worried all the time…"_

There the old man was, tapping his foot, swaying slowly, and fingers hopping upon the instrument like it was made out of air. He was six foot four, dressed in clothes that made him look like he came out of a time predating color TV, and he went by the name Chef. He had been a cook in the army, and that's what he officially did for a living. But Ray called him by his actual name, because that's how he had introduced himself. He had a liking for B.B. King, he even had his diabetes, or so he told Ray.

You don't expect people to be so friendly; who wanted to talk to you because it was in their nature to want to talk to you, and not because of some ulterior motive. It was one of the weirdest things, but this man didn't grasp the concept of ulterior motives. He took the hard knocks as they came to him, letting them break his heart and being able to whole-heartedly admit that to the whole world.

He finished his song with an expressive finale that had the vigor of having a whole army of cymbals behind him. Ray and Neela both applauded. He looked up at Ray and frowned, like he was staring back at some delinquent progeny.

"You gonna give me some change or are you gonna just stand there?"

"Oh, hey, I don't know." Ray patted his pockets with smiling, bashful ease. He had a low growl to his voice, both boyish and rough.

"Don't jingle your pockets at me. Probably spent it all on liquor. You need to get yourself a girl, man."

The old man's eyes then set on the girl, standing slightly behind the boy, with doe-eyes and a delicate, intelligent expression. She was wearing a ring on her left hand. He began to mutter his words at first. "Maybe you have."

He looked at Ray. "Did you give that ring to this lovely girl? Is that where all your change went?"

Ray looked down at his shoes bemused. That was the difference between the two of them. According to the old man, you didn't date women, you _married_ them, devoted your whole self to them. That's also probably why the man had been married more times than he probably knew himself.

"This is Neela," Ray said plainly. "She's a doctor. We work together."

He looked at the two more closely, suspiciously. "But, you're not married to her?"

"No."

The next sentence came out in that same accusative slow way. "You working _now_?"

There was silence. He saw the way Ray looked at her. He thought the boy a Goddamn fool. And the next time he'd see him, he wasn't afraid to tell him just that.

Ray laughed. "Do you really have to know everything?"

"I'm invested. It's all about the investment."

The man extended his hand to Neela, which she cheerfully received. "Luis," he introduced himself. "It's a pleasure. What's your story, baby?"

"Oh," she looked at Ray, unaware of what story she had to tell, "Ray's been gracious enough to let me stay with him until my husband returns from Iraq."

"War," Luis said tensely. "That's where your husband's at?"

"This is not the time to share one of your stories, Luis."

He swatted his hand dismissively at Ray. "Nah. I was thinking. About times like these, where you can meet beautiful women on the street and are reminded that your country's at war."

Ray wanted to roll his eyes; the way that guy talked sometimes. "You gonna write a song about it?"

They both looked at each other, more like quarreling brothers. Luis turned to Neela earnestly. "Would you do him a favor and find this guy a girl?"

Ray nodded dryly and began to step away. "Bye, Luis."

"With big _brown_ eyes!"

"Okay."

Neela smiled at him and began to turn to follow Ray. "It was nice meeting you, Luis."

They walked away. She looked at Ray with a shy enthusiasm, a million questions flooding her mind: what Luis's last name was, where he came from, what kind of guitar he was playing (even though she knew nothing of all that), or why he didn't tip him.

All that came out was: "I like him."

"He knows that."

"Do you know every busker?"

"Only the ones that have a special affinity for big brown eyes—"

"—Raymond!"

They both stood still. Ray sighed and turned around like he had no power over it.

"Luis."

He cradled the guitar with both hands. "I'm going to be finished playing in a few minutes. Do you know why?"

Again, he answered, as if out of compulsion. "Why?"

Luis grinned. "I'm going to a wedding. A _midnight_ wedding."

Ray sighed. At Luis and at how "midnight wedding" sounded like a horrible combination of children's story, a romance novel and the conclusion of a drunken romp around Vegas.

"Jesus, Luis."

"You two look nicely dressed. You have plans?"

"No," Neela answered. "Actually, we don't."

"Then come to the wedding!"

"You want us to crash a wedding?"

"_Crash?_ I'm inviting you."

She asked, "What's a midnight wedding?"

"An excuse to have a party in the middle of the night."

Luis frowned, _as if the punk was one to judge_. "Hush, you."

Ray could tell that she wanted to go. He had no idea why. "Will there be food?"

"Good music too."


	4. Part Four

**Part IV**

The minute he walked in the door they shouted his name at him, and seconds later, he found himself helping move a piano to the front of the room after sloppily introducing her to the crowd. All were fascinated by her. She returned the sentiment. He felt a sense of relief that she did.

Lewis Carroll might have found inspiration here. This function was held in a small apartment. And, for such a small space, there was so much movement, so much bustle and action.

It definitely _felt_ like a wedding, or strange geriatric reenactment of it. Things were being broken and rearranged. Feelings were being hurt, and jokes, promises and bets made. They were all surrounded by darkness, moonlight and Christmas lights. Everybody dressed as they pleased—the bride, the most simply dressed, in something resembling a nightgown. The food, assembled in a potluck fashion, had absolutely no coherence to each other. That didn't stop the doctor guests from partaking in it later. There was not a rich man in the room.

Ray found it kind of overwhelming to see all of them in one place at the same time, all of them belonging to their club with no name. Some he'd treated at County, some he'd met on the street. He hadn't been to one of these things before. The concept of the midnight wedding had been started by one of them, or all of them, despondent that the "happiest day of their lives" had to be over with so early in their lifetimes. Happiness and youth were not mutually exclusive after all. The gatherings operated like a collegial secret society and the ceremony happened at midnight because they figured that would allow them to celebrate their anniversaries on two days. They were proud of the fact they didn't have to notify the state.

He eventually was able to reintroduce her to them. There was Bruno, who had a hobby of reading up on the ways of the human body. He liked to measure his medical knowledge against Ray's. First, he told him about the growing muscle pain he'd been getting lately, trying to finagle out a diagnosis. When Ray provided one, he happily moved on to regurgitating the haphazard things he knew on the subject, rambling raptly on the finer points of lactic acid. There was also Jia. She liked to call her grandchildren and put them on speaker, so everybody could hear them say all those great things grandchildren would say. And, the ones who were about to get hitched were Molly and Jack. They were both cartographers, had been together for thirty some years and wed at midnight every year.

***

Neela watched the woman apply the last bit of shadow on Molly's eyes with a child's fascination, like she'd never seen anything like it before. The woman, a Brit herself, was precise, quick, brushing the make up on skin like painting a canvas.

The last social event she could remember attending involved watching Morris belt out "Raspberry Beret" at a Karaoke Bar. Ray and Neela had been up next to sing something by Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers until they faked a phone call from their landlord, notifying them that their apartment had been broken into. Neela would always wonder what it'd be like to see Ray channel Kenny Rogers.

And, the last time she had been to a wedding was her own. This one resembled it: low-key, intimate, seemingly put together in hours. Except all who were now in attendance seemed like they were eligible to receive social security benefits. It flummoxed her on how Ray could've gotten involved with such a… crowd. They all seemed to know him, Luis the most. Eventually, she drew out an explanation: they all lived double lives, they all had nomadic, Bohemian existences, they were all musicians. Kooks, hung up on romancing, as Bowie had said, or as Ray quoted to Neela in a whisper.

***

Ray felt like shaking the old man. _It wasn't like that_.

Some of the guys talked about their significant others, how they'd become the voice in their heads. Not necessarily in the Hallmark card sense, or like Jiminy Cricket and Pinocchio; but that the sounds of their voices, they were stitched into their minds, like knowing it on the telephone, like knowing the notes and rhythm to a song.

Luis found it apt to slip Ray a look, one that asked, "What's it like to have the voice in your head have a British accent?" Jesus Christ, it was like being trapped in a _Three's Company_ rerun.

He wouldn't tell Luis this, because he'd probably take it the wrong way, but the first time he'd realized that he felt comfortable with Neela, that he could safely say that they were _friends _was when he knew he'd gotten used to the sound of her voice, and when he was fairly certain that she had gotten used to his. At any rate, it wasn't that difficult to recognize her voice. She was the only person he knew who sounded the way she did.

***

A woman with white shoulder length hair and gentle, doll-like features sat down next to Neela. She was the person who had done Molly's make up. Usually, Neela was good with names, but she suddenly wasn't sure, even when she'd just met the woman. It might've been Emily. For both their sakes, she hoped it was Emily.

"How long has your husband been out of the country?"

Neela just looked back at her with a mild uncertainty, as if she hadn't heard correctly. Normally, she'd feel resentful hearing that kind of question, especially from a stranger. It could become a grating pity party to be always known as the wife whose husband wasn't there.

Emily's lips widened like she were trying to share a secret. "Word spreads quickly."

"About three months. He's a doctor, actually. We met at the hospital where Ray and I work." She said this in the most casual way she knew. Newlywed women weren't supposed to sound sad.

"Oh. County, right?"

"Yes."

They were quiet, letting the music trickle into the conversation. Frank and Nancy Sinatra were being melancholy on how three stupid words could ruin everything.

Emily breathed in, almost gasping. She scraped fingernails against her cheek, a nervous habit. "My partner, um, well," the words came out, bit by self-conscious bit, "she passed away not too long ago. She stayed at County."

"I'm sorry." Those words came out on instinct. She wasn't sure if it was the doctor who was saying it. And, suddenly, she was the one commiserating on the other side.

"Oh, it's," the woman shook her hand, as if to indicate that was all beside the point, "I do wonder what it would be like to work at some place like that, where you're reminded of the hard facts of life so often, especially where you two work."

"It's," Neela sighed. You never could really know until you did it everyday, every hour, every minute. Until you were unbearably, devastatingly bad at it, and until you were finally decent at it, despite yourself. It was important not to over think it, not that she followed her own advice. "It's like having the breath knocked out of you, and everything else with it, and then being made to run as far and as fast as you can. It screws you up a little in the head, I think." Her voice steadied to become quieter, lower. "But, it can be a lot of things."

Emily smiled, obligated to lighten the mood. "At least, you got a husband out of it, and a roommate, too."

That she had. It was like her entire life had been crumpled into County. She changed the subject slightly. "How did you and your partner meet?"

"Oh, years ago… it was cold and early in the morning, in the park, and she was sitting somewhere under shade and playing the prelude for Bach on her cello." She smiled again, wistfully, "I hear that piece in my dreams sometimes. They say people grieve differently at night. They see faces, memories; even have conversations with loved ones. I hear Bach in G Major. I think she'd have a fit if she knew. The Prelude's the most overexposed of the six suites, what novices play. But, maybe it makes sense in a way. It is the courtship, the first moments of truth in a relationship that seem to have the most prevalence in literature, the arts. It's a foundation. How's my psyche any different? And, isn't that what we old fogeys are celebrating now—at least on the surface?"

"I remember that piece from school. It's lovely, kind of gracefully edgy, quivering and drifting." Neela let out a soft breathy laugh. "I honestly never thought I'd ever be talking music with one of Ray's friends."

"You know, neither did I." Emily wryly wagged her finger at Neela. "Ah, but the tattoos can be misleading. That is if you had any pre-judgment toward tattoos."

Neela glanced in Ray's direction quietly, to see what was happening on his end, as if to touch base. She sat against the back of the chair, her head tilting slightly to watch him. Her hands rested on her lap like she was posing for a portrait.

He was arguing with Luis, nodding, then shaking his head, then continuing to make his case in outright but smirking indignation. Neela knew that face, he'd used it on her so many times. She watched him eventually move away, her head moving with him a little, until she looked down at her posed hands, a smile ripening on her lips.

"Well," Emily said. "It's good to know that I am not the only one who knows what it's like to not be able to tell someone 'I love you' to their face."

Neela replied with playful warmth. "Bach probably did at some point."

***

She seated herself next to Ray, ten minutes to midnight, the ceremony on the verge of starting. A few moments before, neither could figure out whether to sit on the bride's or groom's side; and they found themselves laughing and moving around and in between sets of chairs like a ragtag team in a three-legged sack race.

She nudged him with her elbow, while smilingly looking straight ahead. "I know you were semi-retired and all after the band left you, but this… is taking it a little too seriously, don't you think?"

He also looked straight ahead, vaguely flustered. "It's a long story, okay?"

"Yeah, it is."

Someone hit a cowbell when the ceremony began. The couple walked themselves down the aisle to Billie Holiday's "If the Moon Turns Green." There was talk about love, resilience, the weather and politics. Everybody applauded when the vows were made, someone hit a cowbell, just for good measure, the band started up and the party was started.

***

Sitting far off in a corner, Neela watched the newlyweds dance. They made her think of her parents, when they weren't worrying about money or having everyone fed and clothed, when they were silly and flirty and sang songs from old Indian films. She wondered whether her father had gone back to having a mustache, or whether her mother still yelled when talking on the phone. She wondered whether the reason it had been so easy to shut her out was because they were so used to not being with her in the first place. Is that how things were supposed to go in life? People just fade away?

Ray walked up to her, putting two empty champagne glasses and a bottle on the table nearby. He stood there, affectionately gazing down. "You said you couldn't go to dances."

"Oh, they let me eventually. Went to plenty in university." She nodded her head, continued to look at the dancers and then blinked. _Wait_.

He laughed, tilting his head toward the dancers. "How about we join the kids?"

Without looking at him, she sheepishly stood up and walked with him to where the dancers were. Her heart jumped a little when they assumed positions, hands clasping together, and other hands being put safely on each others backs, shifting a little bit to settle on a place, holding each other close, but not too close. They both initially wore expressions of hesitance and self-consciousness, watching opposite sides of the room. His one hand opened as if sizing how small hers were compared to his, then closing again.

They finally looked at each other and suddenly everything changed. They swayed, like Luis and his guitar, like a silent duet.

She gazed up at him. "You're an absolute enigma."

He let out a gentle, teasing laugh. "Like you aren't?"

"I like how they all treat you," she said this quietly. "Like some surrogate, prodigal nephew."

"They're actually the prodigal ones. A lot of the times."

Neela's eyes fell on the newlyweds again. She thought of Rita, Bach, her parents, Michael, and then there were thoughts about time, a _midnight_ marriage. This whole night made her feel so wistful and yet so _hopeful_. "It'd be good to grow old like that. I can't even describe it. Just dancing, laughing, celebrating. Being able to physically relive your wedding day whenever you want."

"Seems kind of self-indulgent."

This surprised her. Was he just saying that or did he mean it? Why were they always on opposite sides? But, it _was_ self-indulgent, wasn't it? More than most people allowed themselves to be.

"I think you've grown old."

Smiling in this faint, pensively deliberate way, he practically whispered. "It's bound to happen."

Neela didn't look away. She kept on making commitments to life. He was still figuring it out. This is what they knew how to do to. And yet, there was envy for what was embodied in the other. Words tumbled out. "You ever think of-of settling down?"

He breathed shallowly. "I do."

***

They found their way back to their spot with Ray's champagne. The subject drifted to another subject regarding the facts of life.

"15? 14?" She sat back on the couch anxiously. Michael had lost his at that age as well. What was it with them and that age? "With whom?"

"Sister of a friend. She was 16. She fronted her own band." He poured champagne into both their glasses. "Hey, I heard Carter lost his at 11."

"That's disgusting."

"And, you, 17." He handed her a glass. "It _was_ a very good year."

She held the glass with both hands.

"Well, that's the year I decided to fall in love. I'd known him since primary school. He had a good mind. My friends and I would speculate on whether he was a good kisser. They assumed he would be."

"Why?"

"Oh, because he was a musician." Neela paused, realizing what she had just said. "He played the trumpet or French horn or something like that. You know, with his lips."

She had a feeling she'd be replaying this conversation later on in her head and regret it. She set the glass down on the table.

"The viola player and the French horn player."

"I think it was the trumpet…" she corrected. "You know, I've always had this horrible, mechanical attitude toward intimacy, as if it's something that everybody gets over with in order to maintain functioning as a normal human being. There was no spontaneity in it. No heart. I think that's why I liked Michael. Because it wasn't what I would usually do, so forthrightly continuing something that could've died before it started. I feel some kind of pride in that." She breathed. She didn't know why she was telling him this. He didn't move. "But, now I just want it to _start_. For real. And, I feel so utterly selfish for it. What he must be going through—everyday, and here I am, resenting him because I can't _play_ house. I can't even bloody cook."

"Well." He held his glass in the air as if giving a toast.

"As someone who's had the privilege of living with you, he probably could not find anyone better to play house with."

"You are such a liar."

"I think you believed it a little."

A man wearing a scratchy sweater and big pot belly approached them. He held a tiny disposable camera in both of his hands. "I think there's a couple of pictures left in this."

The man watched them for an answer. Ray and Neela looked back, expecting him to say more. This happened for about five seconds more until the man finally asked, "Would you like a picture?"

"Oh, um." Neela felt inclined to waver.

"Do we have any pictures together?"

"We didn't take any at the wedding?"

The man with the camera felt inclined to join in. "You didn't take any pictures at your wedding?"

At that moment, Luis decided to walk by, holding an empty platter, and join in as well. "He's not married to her. He just lives with her." He then promptly walked away.

"Thank you, Luis."

Neela shook her head slightly, pursing her lips to suppress a smile.

"I think a picture would be wonderful."


	5. Part Five

**Part V**

"Ray, wake up."

"What is it?"

"The sun's rising." Neela sat at the side of his bed, gently shaking his body to wake.

He sighed and buried his face in a pillow. "It's your day off, and more importantly, it's my day off. Go back to bed."

"Get up. Honestly, who sleeps with their socks on?"

"_I was_," he pleaded, "_I was_ sleeping with my socks on."

On the days that he woke before she would, she'd hear him fumble out of bed and scuffle around in preparation for an early shift. It had occurred to her that she was missing hearing that, the sound of his voice, that tone of his as he bid goodbye to a one-night-stand, or his swearing when he stubbed his toe on something because he had left the place in such a Goddamn disarray.

She had been too restless to fall asleep, and when the first rays of day hit the windows, she began to feel the niggling need to wake him.

"Just get up, will you? I'll let you get back to bed as soon as we're done."

"Done doing what?"

She pulled at the buttons of her grey cardigan with a nearly wild eagerness. "Standing at the top of the Empire State Building."

Neela left his bedroom and quickly moved toward the door of the apartment. He groaned as he shoved the covers off of his body. "You really need to get over your whiskey phase."

The piano from an old squeaky Kinks record lingeringly thumped in the living room. The words were being chanted in eerie tenderness: _When I look up from my pillow I dream you are there with me. Though you are far away I know you'll always be near to me._

***

"Did you know we had a roof?" She spoke distantly, as if she were just thinking aloud. Ray wanted to answer back that roofs generally came with the whole structural package of a building, but he knew what she meant.

There was a stark emptiness up there, all concrete, some broken flower pots, an unkemptly kept plateau in the middle of a sleeping village. It reminded him of the top of every building he'd stood on. There was an old lawn chair close to the ledge overlooking West Town. Her fingers lightly touched his, indicating that he move closer with her to the ledge, to get a better view.

"Are we even supposed to be up here?" He wasn't sure why he was suddenly so concerned about that, considering he had briefly lived on top of County, throwing himself Fourth of July barbeques and everything.

Wicker Park was spread out before them, the downtown skyline peeking up imperially in the back. They were reminded of the messages written in graffiti by those feeling profound or other things on streets and alleys and brick walls. Their eyes travelled down streets of bushes and brownstones, and big old trees on the verge of sprouting their leaves. Every building had its own architectural heritage. Every building was intricately beautiful, radiating wisdom for being there in the middle of all things. Cars lined up against the sidewalks, one after another after another. Traffic lights changed from red to green to yellow, even if there was nobody to pay heed to them. And, there were the tall bowing lights on train platforms, glowing lonesome against the sky's feathery sea of pink and blue.

"Rooftops remind me of Michael." She reflexively nudged some slippery strands of hair behind her ear and then pulled the material of the cardigan closer to herself.

"Why?"

"They make you feel connected, like you can see everything everywhere, know everything. Be with the ones you can't be with. The good rooftops anyway."

There was always so much of the past drifting in the air in the early morning, as if the past existed in the clouds of daybreak. Faceless phantoms, none of the detail, but filled with the velocity of feelings. The way an amnesiac might remember things.

"I saw you cleaned the kitchen."

"I said I would." Neela grinned. She turned to look at him. "Thank you."

For a moment, he was sure she was going to say "_Roomie_" at the end, he would get her to say it, one day.

But, now he looked back at her, expectantly. "For what?"

"For trying one of my cookies again against your better judgment." He did a lot of things against his better judgment, including standing on this roof with her.

"Only because I expect you to reacquaint yourself with a certain film genre tonight."

Neela laughed softly and snaked her arm inside Ray's jacket and wrapped it around his waist. Her head moved so it touched his chin, the blackness of her hair slightly grazing against his beard. It was a friendly hug. It broke his heart a little that it wasn't meant to be anything more, though he wouldn't admit it to himself. He put his own arm around her. They both stood there as the sky slowly amended its colors.

She was warm, just exuding _warmth_. That was the thing about her, no matter what the temperature, just no matter what, she always felt warm. He imagined what it would be like to lie down with her, to have her smell with him as he drifted off to sleep, and for dawn to break with that still being there in the air.

With him.

* * *

**A/N:**

This is it, the last part of the story. Not to sound weird, but keep this story in mind and then check out the scene on YouTube of Ray and Neela's first kiss. Just so you know…

I want to thank _everyone_ who took time to read this story and everyone who sent me a comment as well. Helps preserve my vanity. I want to thank RayNeelaFan especially, since I couldn't PM you personally, and you've posted such nice reviews along the way! A big shout out to the folks at Save Reela—thanks for saving reela :-), having such, _such_ great discussions and helping feed my obsession for this pairing. And, thanks for always leaving comments for this particular story and other stories as well!

Lastly, I want to say a big, fat, gigantic THANK YOU to K for reading the story over and being so absolutely amazing with the feedback. I can't even explain how much I appreciate it. I won't try. It could get creepy.


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